Kevin
strapped on the guitar and searched around for the jack-plug socket
in the amp. A voice from the back of the pub shouted something
about Oasis and Wonderwall. He thought to himself -Fuck
you, pal! Youre gonny hear what I want to play. Nane o
yur fuckn Oasis shite.

As he connected with the amp - he felt the buzz run through the guitar.
It was always the same - the fix - like a junkies rush; electric
adrenaline. An excitement of images switched on - somewhere
in the back of his mind; Bo Diddley, Clapton, Page, Townsend - then, the
solitary figure of Hendrix strum-storming the stage at Woodstock. He knew
they had felt the same feeling - every time. Nothing else mattered once
you were up there - the strap across your back and the click of the jack
in the box; power!

He spent less than a minute tuning-up - the Strat so reliable it rarely
lost a semi-tone even if it hadnt been touched for weeks. The footlights
blinded for a moment and all he could see was weird rainbow rings round
the bulbs. His foot tapped-out the intro beat and he hit the first chord.

When he came off stage there was still a group of people at the back of
the pub shouting for more. He unplugged the guitar and tried to think
back to his performance. He couldnt remember any part of it. After
striking the first note - he moved on to a different world. He wasnt
there - in front of forty-or more people running through hits from other
heroes pasts - he was inside it all. The guitar - him - the leads
- they all connected to a master mixer floating around past fleeting clouds.
Flash images of centre-stage at the Hollywood Bowl dazzled his brain then
as quickly left - to be replaced by scenes of screaming fans before him
- a wave of thousands with lighters aflame - far beyond the line of his
vision.

A young lad slapped Kevin on the back and said something kind; great
stuff - man or some other words of the like. Kevin smiled - thanked
him - and continued packing his gear away. The young lad remained next
him - hovering.
See that wan yi playd the lad spoke to Kevins
back. That Bowie number - mind?
Kevin turned - nodded - yet not really remembering a note of it.
Aye - well - that wus fuckn ace- pal - so it wuz. Yi
ken whit ah mean - that yin.
The young lad imagined a guitar in his hands and strummed the air - shaking
his head from side to side. Didnae no whit time it wuz an
lights wur low-oh. He laughed.
Yi ken the wan?
Kevin smiled. The kid sounded more like Bowie than Kevin ever did.
Aye wull - ah thoat yi wur the bizniz daen that - so yi wur.
A girl came up to the lad and started pulling at his sleeve.
Cmoan Tam! Brendas huvin a party ut hur place.
Cmoan! Wur aw gonn in a taxi.
The lad was being dragged away but turned and shouted back. Ah fuckn
rate you pal - nae kiddin.

Kevin slid the Strat into the bag. He found himself thinking about the
lad; the night; the future. The biggest gig you play - is yourself! Thats
good enough! Like the young lad - next week - hed be here again
- and gone again.